


I Should Go but I will Probably Stay

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Prompt Responses [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sam, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://stesichoreanpalinode.tumblr.com/">stesichoreanpalinode</a>: There's a whole genre of fic where Sam settles down with college/new job/girlfriend/wife/baby and Dean watches him and realises something is missing in his life and looks around and sees Cas. Where is the fic where Dean and Cas settle down and Sam watches them and realises there is something missing in his life and looks around and Crowley is always texting him and taking him for dinner and giving him flowers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Should Go but I will Probably Stay

Sam knows he's wine-drunk when he starts to flip his hair out of his face. And when he raises his voice a little, gets short with the sommelier about how much they're pouring at a time.

"Little more, _thanks_ ," he hisses, and rolls his fingers to indicate that the pouring should continue.

He _tsk_ s as the guy walks away and turns to Crowley and rolls his eyes. "I mean, like, leave the bottle. _Seriously_ ," he slurs slightly.

Crowley finally gets to the point where he can't _not_ laugh. "Any specific reason you're so bent on getting trollied at $230 a bottle this evening, Moose? Or are you just that delighted at the prospect of seeing two of me?"

"Two hundred and thirty dollars. Wow. Wow, Crowley. Wow," Sam's elbow sends a spoon clattering into his dessert plate as he leans forward on the table. "That's a lot. It's really good. Thank you. Like, really. Thank you. You're not half-bad you know that?"

Crowley blinks, his eyes go wide and sweep the room. Too bad no one present is interested in this momentous occasion. Crowley: _not half-bad_.

He lifts his own glass from the table and sips before moving back in on the delicate little chocolate sculpture in front of him.

"Just expressing my surprise that I've been seeing you so often. I don't object to being your drinking companion, Sam, I simply wonder if there's some kind of, you know, _massive_ underlying issue."

Sam frowns and his elbow teeters on the table which means his drink sloshes a little in his hand. He puts it down to poke at his crème brûlée with the spoon.

"I just...," Sam heaves a sigh and gets really rather dour all of a sudden. "I have to get out of the bunker," he confesses. "I know why Dean still wants to keep me close and it's not like anyone else wants my company these days. Not with the whole dick-of-doom thing--"

Crowley snorts and food almost comes out of his mouth. He whips his napkin to his face to conceal it as a minor coughing fit and then reaches for the water instead of the wine. He misses a few words, there, as Sam goes on, getting glassy-eyed.

"… And I wouldn't have been any good for her either, and here I am. Alone. All alone. And Dean cuddles up with Cas at the end of the night, now, and it's just a matter of time. They already go on hunts on their own and leave me behind. Thanks, again," he adds, dropping his spoon and almost reaching across the table as if for Crowley's attention. "Thank you, really, for getting me out of there last time. It was interesting! I'd never been to Belize!"

"My pleasure," Crowley responds, pats his hand so it will retreat back across the table.

"Anyway." Sam huffs and drops back in his chair. He only stares at the wine glass instead of collecting it again. "I'm on my own. And when I'm not, I'm stuck in the bunker with those two making goo-goo eyes at each other. And they're so happy! I don't wanna screw it up. But I'm so. I'm. I'm just."

He doesn't finish.

"Lonely?" Crowley offers.

"Well, no." Sam thinks about it. In fact, he sits there and thinks, spacing out for several minutes. Enough time for Crowley to finish his own dessert without further incident. He rolls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and falls back in his seat, a less-sprawled mimic of the huge man across the table from him.

"I bet you've gotta go now," Sam pouts. "Again." He sniffs like he's on the edge of tears but it's just the drunk. Just him being maudlin. "You've got an empire to run and all."

"That's the beauty of a kingdom of damnation," Crowley says. "Subordinates galore. It'll be there when I get back. I've got my phone on. No need to hurry down yet."

Sam's still sad-looking when his eyes come up, a big, comical frown still on his face. "Really?"

Crowley turns slightly and signals for the check.

"Really." He settles back and they wait. "Finish your drink, love, it's early enough we can catch a show. How about that?"

«»

They're on the streets of some big city. Sam thinks Crowley was alluding to Zürich when he answered the phone but he didn't actually stop to check.

Sam was pacing outside the bunker, impatient, eager to be elsewhere -- anywhere but that hole in the ground.

Crowley had answered.

He always answers.

He feels that his feet wander and he knows he's a little unstable. When Crowley hooks a hand in the crook of his elbow, he simply lets himself be guided. They set a leisurely pace that he doesn't stumble through.

Sam thinks.

He thinks about how it's been nice with Crowley, lately. How Crowley buys him dinners and drinks and takes him all over the world. Something neither Dean nor Cas have ever seemed interested in, no matter how much Castiel is equally capable of zapping around.

Crowley never fails to answer the phone. Crowley texts him in the morning to make sure he's set up at his new motel alright. Makes sure to ask if Dean and Cas harass him about it or leave him alone.

'What, no flowers?' Sam had mocked, one of the first times Crowley showed up, dressed more posh than usual, willing to let Sam tag along to see the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

There had been a fucking _corsage_ the next time. Sam laughed his ass off. He'd tossed the plastic box in the motel freezer and forgotten about it when he moved on to the next town.

He's frowning deeply now. His eyes sting. That stupid wrist flower. What a stupid thing to do. Why would somebody do that? It was funny at the time. Crowley had this shit-eating grin, a joke about putting out after prom.

Sam had forgotten the flower altogether. He remembers smacking the steering wheel when he remembered it, three hours past on the road.

He wants his stupid wrist flower back.

He doesn't start crying but he almost gets the hiccups for a little while. Holds his breath and tries to keep his shit together.

This city is beautiful. The air is crisp-cold. The cold before snow.

Crowley tugs his arm to get him to stop at a crosswalk.

"I think I wanna go home," Sam says, once they're on the opposite side of the street.

"I thought we were avoiding the bunker," Crowley says, still navigating them through a small crowd.

"Yeah. I don't want to go back there tonight. Today. Whatever it is in that time zone. I wanna get a motel."

"Ugh," Crowley whines. "Really? With the motels?" He looks up at Sam. "You can't stay here for the night? In a nice hotel like a real-live boy with some _class_ and _taste_? Or at least play tourist for the night," he grumbles.

They get to where it seems Crowley was headed. Sam can't read the headliner or what kind of show is even playing at the venue but it's all lit up and inviting. He doesn't want to be invited to some strange place.

And he doesn't want to be alone.  
But he's not alone when he's with Crowley.

Fuck's sake. Crowley even _treats him right_ when they're out together. He lavishes attention upon him like he's not running Hell, making deals, and wiping blood off his hands during the day. He's kind and at least mildly concerned.

Sam tugs Crowley around to face him and drops his arm.

"Fine. Then, can we go hang out somewhere quiet? It doesn't have to be a shitty motel. I don't care where."

Crowley sighs and looks toward the venue again, wistful. Then he squints back up at Sam and seems to fully assess him. "I've a place nearby. Well. As near as these things go. Strasbourg."

"Okay. Can we go there?"

It's only a blink and Sam is completely unsettled and half-sobered by the sudden lack of crowds and nighttime darkness and bustle around him. The change in elevation presses on his ears painfully for a moment.

There's indoor, artificial light. And Crowley turning to remove his coat and hang it in a nearby closet.

They're in a sleek apartment and Sam had thought he'd stopped giving a shit how poorly he dressed in his jackets and boots and plaid. He thought being admitted to gourmet restaurants and having his wardrobe ignored in favor of Crowley's Black Card had inured him to feeling out of place. Wherever Crowley took him, that's where he belonged.

But this apartment is sleek and bright. And he feels like he doesn't fit again. He feels like a big, dumb moose with 'shifter blood never getting out from under his fingernails and his jeans that got ripped up at the ankle from running through the woods last week.

He's looking around, feeling like the booze is making him ill and still unsteady from so much of that rich wine.

"Sam," Crowley says, quietly, and takes his elbow again, "you're going to give yourself a heart attack with all that stressful thinking, darling. Let me get us a coffee."

Crowley is gonna draw him over to the wide, lovely, stone-and-steel kitchen. He's gonna sit him down and take care of him for no reason that Sam can fucking understand and it's amazing. It's simply amazing. Ask him if he's lonely -- he's _not_ lonely. Because he's got Crowley here. Whenever he needs him.

It's amazing. Maybe he's still a little (a lot) drunk but it's amazing.

He plants his feet and Crowley stops tugging, looks back at him, questioning.

Sam moves to grab Crowley's elbows this time and moves him back against the closet and brackets in around him.

Crowley gets a dark look. "What are you doing, you great galoot--" he starts to complain, before Sam drops his head to the side of Crowley's neck and sucks, then bites a kiss there.

Crowley goes real quiet real fast.

Sam pulls back to look at his face.

Crowley's eyes are narrowed in suspicion, his body stiff, hands held out almost as if to push Sam away. But when Sam steps even closer, the hands only land on him and stay. They don't push him off.

Sam puts his hands on Crowley's neck and digs his thumbs into the tension there a little bit.

"Thank you," he says. "For dinner. And the expensive wine. And the stupid wrist flower. And rescuing me from Dean n' Cas's lovey-dovey bullshit."

Crowley's eyes roam up and down him again, still cautious. "What the hell is a wrist flower?"

"The corsage."

Crowley's head ticks up in acknowledgement. "The corsage," he agrees.

Sam drops his head low to pop a kiss onto Crowley's lips. Rises again. Lets himself be squinted at further.

After another moment Crowley lets out a little moaning growl when Sam's thumbs continue to dig in to his neck. He bangs his head back against the closet door and closes his eyes for a moment.

Sam takes the opportunity to drop down below his jaw and kiss up to his left ear.

"Shit," Crowley hisses. "Shit. Alright. Off," he presses his hands forward and pushes Sam away from him.

"Why?" Sam challenges, but steps back.

"You'll gank me in the morning if I do this right now."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're fucking hammered, you're kissing me."

"I want to," Sam sets his jaw, stubborn.

"You want--" Crowley pops away from Sam faster than a blink and is on his other side. He doesn't finish what he was saying. He goes to the kitchen and snaps his fingers and the expensive-looking coffee contraption that's sitting on the counter has two steaming mugs under it.

Crowley turns, puts both on the bar and waits for Sam to come up to the other side of it and drag one away by the handle.

They drink in silence for a too-long, too-tense couple of minutes.

He doesn't believe for a second that Crowley walked away because he doesn't want him.

"Why can't-"  
"Drink your coffee," Crowley snaps.

Sam tries to sit on one of the steel barstools but it's a weird curved shape and uncomfortable and Crowley seems to take the fidgeting and getting on and off of it for more drunken antics.

He eventually puts his mug down, nearly finished but not empty.

"If all you're gonna do is stare at me-" Sam starts again.

Crowley holds up a finger and leans his elbows on the counter opposite.

Sam is silent. 

"You're gonna sleep it off. You'll call me in the morning and I'll dump you off in Ohio or something," he scowls. "But for tonight you're staying out of the flea-bitten motels and you're getting an honest night's rest. You'll sleep off the drink. You'll feel shit in the morning. And then you'll find a hunt and go occupy yourself."

It's only when Sam rolls his eyes and lolls his head that he feels how exhausted he is.

"Just keep hunting," he says.

"I don't know. _No_ , actually, that's probably _not_ the answer to your problem, Moosey, but _I'm_ certainly not. This," he indicates their whole situation with that one finger, "This isn't. You'll figure it out."

"I'll call you in the morning."

"And I'll take you back, yeah."

"No, I mean, I'll call you in the morning and prove you wrong," Sam knows he's got his ugly-stubborn face on right now and can't help it.

Crowley grabs their mugs. The ceramic clacks together and he tosses them in the sink with the dregs still in them.

"Down the hall, on the right," he says, fixing the cuffs on his sleeves. "Go sleep," he orders, and passes Sam, brushing against his side to go collect his jacket again and disappear.

Sam just realized he's in France.  
He _pretty sure_ he's in France.

And he's just been abandoned. His ride's flown off.

He circles the long counter into the kitchen proper and opens up the fridge hoping to find booze.

It's empty. Chugging away, wasting energy, and empty. In the freezer is a quarter bottle of vodka.

Christ. Vodka.

No.

He shuts the freezer and heads down the hall. He's not stumbling but everything feels too short for him. He feels like he has to hunch or he'll hit the door frame and the light fixtures.

His last conscious thought is that he kinda expected silk sheets.

«»

The morning isn't nearly as agonizing as expected.

He wanders around the flat and no one else is there. Crowley's not there.

He checks his phone and there are no messages. Only a text from Dean about how shitty his football picks were this week and how he owes him eighty bucks. Because that's _totally_ gonna happen.

Sam showers. He doesn't have his bags so he's got nothing to change into and he's not ready to put on yesterday's clothes and feel dirty and gross all over again.

The towels are huge and fluffy. He wraps one snug around his waist and heads to the kitchen to figure out if the coffeemaker actually works manually or only when Crowley _assumes_ that it will produce coffee.

He hadn't thought to check the cabinets. There are a few cans in them, coffee, tea and a few other things. There's a six pack of beer. He moves that into the fridge and then fiddles with the machine. His wet hair falls from behind his ears as he works.

It blocks his peripheral vision so he doesn't notice Crowley's there until he looks up.

Crowley doesn't look quite as angry as when he left last night.

Sam sets the coffee and scoop down and straightens up.

"Your head clear?" Crowley asks.

"Yeah."

Crowley nods and they're silent, awkward for a long moment.

"Gonna be a bit strange checking into a motel like that but I admire the new look," he indicates the towel.

Sam turns back to the machine and bites his lip so his mouth is straight. So he doesn't give anything away. He pushes everything he was working on back on the counter and turns, walks up to Crowley.

"Thank you," he says, close and looming.

Crowley's head kind of shakes before he nods, looks alllll the way up at Sam. "Right. Yeah. _You're welcome_ ," he says, like a put-upon host finally getting his due.

"So, you're gonna take me home?"

"Or wherever. What do you fancy hunting this week? Ready for a mauling for just a light rain of sulfur and chaos?"

"Take me to Paris."

Crowley blinks, but says, "Alright. Get your shoes on."

"Then take me to Cairo."

Crowley smirks, "What, all museums? I don't even get to see the backside of a fucking Tahitian resort in this deal?"

"Then take me to bed."

Crowley doesn't move. His eyes flick side to side, the same instinct Sam often has when he's turning someone on and it's unexpected but he's kind of into it, kind of down for where it might lead. Kind of wants to, but isn't sure it's not a trick. Or someone looking to trick _him_ into something.

He doesn't feel as confident as he did when his blood was half wine. But Crowley's not moving. And instead of saying 'fuck you' he said 'get your shoes on.'

Sam raises his hands to Crowley's neck again. Stoops a little to place a closed-mouth kiss on his lips again.

Under his hands, Sam can feel the motion of Crowley swallowing. He lifts his head this time and Sam dips to meet him. Kisses him a few times before opening his mouth and getting kissed deep.

He steps forward, moving his body into Crowley's and starts getting him out of his jacket.

When it hits the floor, that's when Crowley pulls back to look around again. To inspect Sam up and down again.

"I have to admit, I don't understand," he says.

"Take me to breakfast after this."

He looks left, then right. Focuses on Sam again. "Where?"

"That's why," Sam replies, as if it answers everything.

Crowley pulls a face that's somewhat disgusted underneath the confusion, "Because I _give_ you things? That could mean anything. I could be buttering you up for some huge scheme, I'm--"

Sam shakes his head. "You're not. You're _there_ for me."

Crowley is hesitant a minute more. "Well, what happens when I'm not?"

"You're busy," Sam shrugs, "You're the King of Hell."

"You don't know the half of what goes on in my world," Crowley starts, like he's going to lecture.

Like he's going to lecture Sam on being more careful about who he gets involved with.

Sam quiets him by bringing their lips together, but just _almost_. Brushing as he speaks, but not pressing.

"Something changed and you want to do anything for me," he says, quiet. "You'll do anything for me."

A desperate, tiny little laugh comes out of the back of Crowley's throat. "Christ, look at you. Who _wouldn't?_ "

Sam kisses his mouth, ending the discussion.


End file.
